


scherzando in g minor

by OnyxSphinx



Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [4]
Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, also some hurt/comfort, and some angst, ian and yassen being weirdly soft and flirty as per usual for this series, oh and some alex and yassen bonding, well i've finally written it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Ian and Yassen's arrangement, and the consequences thereof.
Relationships: Tom Harris/Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110101
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well it's finally here. someone set off the fireworks.

Yassen's not usually one for anxiety; in his profession, it's something that's beaten out of you, one way or another, or else you die. It's simple; one plus one is two, the sky is blue; assassins are not the anxious type.

Still, as he goes about his day, he finds himself oddly tense; hyperaware of everything. He spends an hour monitoring the local CCTV feed, and spends every moment of that on edge.

As evening arrives, it only worsens. He's staying at a hotel—nothing fancy, the mirrors cracked and slightly clouded; the drapes old and dusty; and it's as he checks his appearance in the mirror that he realises it.

He's... _nervous_ because of the occasion. Because Ian has invited him over, has trusted him enough to do so. Despite his profession, despite their opposite sides in the grand scheme of things, he has.

And this fact makes him nervous.

The realisation has him stopping and staring at himself in the mirror—expression clear and bored to anyone else, but he can recognise the bafflement and confusion in his own eyes. He's never managed to deaden them, despite the years.

He lets out a breath; swallows once, to ease the lump that's suddenly formed; checks his watch. He's got plenty of time to get there.

He takes the scenic route, observing the greenery as he drives; letting London envelop him like some sort of large hand cradling a kitten—though he is no kitten, and London is neither kind nor caring.

The Rider residence is as unassuming as ever; modern, in comparison to its neighbours, but not strikingly so; the panelled wooden door, marked _42,_ set back slightly from the rest of the house. He makes his way up the steps and knocks.

The door swings open a few moments later to reveal a young boy; blonde and slightly shorter than Yassen. Alex, he remembers, from his surprise visit a few weeks before. He holds the wine bottle he brought with him aloft; offers a smile. "I brought this for your uncle."

Alex's gaze lights up. "Yassen, right?" he asks, opening the door wider to let Yassen in, "Ian mentioned you'd be coming over for dinner tonight." He smiles, something secret—not quite laughing at Yassen, but almost.

Yassen brushes it off. "And you're little Alex, yes?"

Alex's smile morphs into a scowl. "I'm almost fifteen," he complains. "I'm not little anymore."

"Of course. My apologies." Yassen offers a placating smile. "Where should I set the bottle?"

Alex leads him inside, past the living room, and into the kitchen. "Stick it in the fridge," he directs. "Bottom shelf, that's where the drinks drawer is." That proves to be true; there's another bottle of wine, and some cans of energy drinks and a few sodas. "Ian's upstairs," Alex tells him, "I'll go get him."

"Alex?" A woman appears from the hallway, stopping and assessing Yassen. "You must be Ian's friend," she says. "I'm Jack. I'm the housekeeper."

"She's practically my sister," Alex calls, already halfway up the stairs. Jack's face goes slightly soft; a smile tugging at her lips. Clearly, she cares for the boy.

"So," she says, making her way into the kitchen proper, and pulling out cutlery and plates, and setting the table, "how did you and Ian meet?"

Ah; getting to know him. He can deal with this. Smoothly, he answers. "We work in similar branches." That's more or less the truth. "I ran into him while on the job." Also the truth, if omitting certain details, such as the assassination of the American ambassador.

Jack hums; serving what looks to be pasta of some type—goulash, perhaps? "Ian mentioned that," she says. "And you hit it off from there, or something, huh?"

"Or something," he echoes.

She looks like she's about to say more, but there's the sound of people coming down the stairs, and Ian appears; his expression lighting up when he sees Yassen. "You came," he says, as if surprised. "It's good to see you."

For a moment, they stand across from each other; locked in orbit; and then Jack clears her throat, and Ian says, "Er, sorry, where are my manners? Do sit down, please."

They sit; starting into the meal. It's delicious, and Yassen says as much; watching Jack's expression grow wide at that. "Thanks," she says, "I thought I'd try something new."

The conversation ebbs and flows; until, finally, Ian asks, "Alex, how was Tom's?"

Alex's ears go slightly pink. "It was fine," he mutters, stabbing at his pasta. "We watched some football. I was thinking about joining the school team, actually—I was wondering if you could sign the papers for that?"

"Sure," Ian agrees, "so long as you keep up with your schoolwork, it should be fine."

"So you play, then?" Yassen asks, swirling his fork to pick up a bite of noodles. Alex nods; still not meeting anyone's gaze.

"Yeah," he says. "Not super well, but I can play okay. I'm, uh, better at it than rugby, though."

Jack huffs. "That's not hard," she teases, "a newborn would be better than you are at rugby."

Alex scowls. "Shut up," he says. "It was the _one time._ "

Ian leans over to him to say, confidingly, "He managed to sprain both his wrist and his ankle, and nearly dislocate his shoulder."

"Fun," Yassen says, drily. "What else do you do? Tennis, badminton?"

Alex shrugs. "A little. I'm okay. I'm better at skiing and sledding, though. And those are way more fun, honestly. Oh, and hang-gliding—" he lights up. "Ian took me hang-gliding last summer—it was bloody _amazing._ "

"Language," Ian scolds.

Yassen's lips twitch. "You're a very active young boy, then," he says. "That is good. It will serve you well as you age." _And,_ he adds, mentally, _if you pursue your uncle's career._ He wouldn't put it past Ian to have some sort of internship lined up for the boy already, and eventually a fieldwork position for him as well, if he chooses. "It will stop you from feeling forty when you are thirty," he adds, with a soft laugh.

Alex shrugs. "I guess," he says, finishing the last of his meal. "Ian, may I be excused?"

Ian blinks. "Sure. What're you so keen to be off for?"

"Just homework," the boy replies; an obvious lie, but Ian lets it pass, nodding.

A few moments later, Jack finishes as well; rising, and leaving just the two of them at the table. "You have built a good life for yourself," Yassen observes, quietly.

Ian hums. "I hope so," he says. "For Alex's sake, if not necessarily my own."

"The youth are our future," Yassen replies; and then, "thank you. For...this."

The other nods. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he says; expression shifting slightly. "I kept thinking you'd probably decided you had better ways to waste your time."

"Waste it?" Yassen blinks. "Were I to have objections, you would have known of them long before now." Everything's been leading to this, between them; their first meeting, and all the subsequent ones.

That seems to relax the other somewhat. "Good to know," he says. "I'll keep that in mind." And then: "Would you like a drink?"

Yassen nods. "Just one."

Ian smiles. "Alright," he says; rising and fetching two glasses. "White or red?"

"Your choice," Yassen says; watching him fetch the bottle from the fridge; pour the red wine into the two glasses and bring them over, sliding one to him. Yasssen picks his glass up, taking a long pull; closing his eyes, savouring the slightly bitter taste. "This is new to me, you know," he confesses.

"What, drinking with an enemy operative?" Ian jokes, taking a sip of his own as well.

Yassen frowns. "No, as a matter of fact." And then, clarifying: "Drinking with someone I have an interest in."

Ian's throat bobs. "Oh," he says; and sets his glass down. Yassen follows suit; twisting in his chair so he's facing the other; reaches out to place a hand on the other's cheek, the light stubble rough against his skin.

Ian closes his eyes; breathes out; leaning into the touch almost imperceptibly; and Yassen's heart rate picks up slightly.

Carefully, he leans forward, pressing his lips to the other's. It's different from their other kisses; more chaste, more brief, but no less lacking for it. When he pulls away, Ian's eyes are open, and he's staring at Yassen hungrily. The expression almost makes Yassen smile.

"Would you like to, ah, come over to mine?" he offers. "It is only a hotel room, I am afraid, but—"

Ian cuts him off with another kiss; less chaste this time. "Yes," he says, his breath puffing against Yassen's lips; and he pulls back, rising. "I'll let Jack know I'll be gone for the night, and then we can go."

Yassen smiles. "Good," he says, standing as well.

Ian disappears into the living room, and Yassen makes his way to the doorway, sliding his shoes on, and stepping out the door; waiting for Ian.

A moment later, the door opens, and the other joins him, taking his hand in his own; the gesture mundane and yet somehow holding a great weight to it; and they walk down to Yassen's car.

* * *

The cold air whips around them. It's February, but London, as usual, is on the colder side. They're currently standing in the middle of the back yard of the Rider residence, Yassen doing his best not to scowl. He'd promised Alex to be a good sport about this.

 _This,_ in this case, being football practice. Alex's aiming to get on his school team, and Yassen's been roped into helping him with it. Ian's away for the day, busy with a slew of meetings, and Alex refused to ask Jack, preferring, instead, to drag Yassen into it.

"I have never even played football," Yassen complains, as he struggles to tighten the cleats that Alex has dug up from somewhere. "Why do you not have Jack play with you?"

Alex gives a dismissive huff. "She's too nice," he whines. "I want someone who's not afraid to actually play with full force."

Yassen raises a brow. "What makes you think that I am willing to?"

The other shrugs. "Just a hunch," he says, and drops the football to the ground, kicking it around from foot to foot for a few moments. Yassen finally manages to get the shoelaces tugged properly tight and ties them into a functional, if messy, bow.

Yassen stands; squaring his shoulders. "This is an elaborate game of keep-away, yes?"

"Something like that," Alex agrees. "Just make sure that I don't manage to score a goal and it'll be fine."

Yassen does his best. As it turns out, he's fairly horrible at it. Alex scores three goals over the course of half an hour, to Yassen's meagre one. He feels vaguely insulted by it, but Alex is grinning, despite his panting.

"Let us take a break," Yassen suggests, "you look like you could use it."

Alex looks like he's going to protest; but then, finally, he says, "Fine." And then: "You're, like, really bad at football, by the way. I swear, the only person more rubbish at it than you is Tom. Not that he's happy about that," he adds.

Yassen's interest must flash across his face for a brief second, because Alex explains. "He always wanted to be on the team. But he's unbelievably clumsy, and he's not particularly athletic either, so he sort of marked it down as a lost cause. He's still super into the games, though—goes to see all the school ones and watches the international ones on the telly."

There's something in his tone; almost wistfulness, and the gears in Yassen's head turn. "Alex," he says, slowly, picking up the football from where it's rolled to a stop in front of him, "are you doing this for Tom's attention?"

"No!" Alex denies quickly—too quickly; a hint of guilt in his voice. His eyes are wide.

Yassen sighs. "It's nothing to be embarrassed of," he tries, knowing he sounds awkward. "At your age, it is—ah, _normal_ to want to impress certain people. People who you have an interest in," he clarifies.

Alex has buried his face in his hands, his ears bright red. "Shut up," he mutters.

Yassen raises his hands; feeling horrifically out of his depth. "I did not intend to make you uncomfortable—"

"Just shut up," Alex groans. "I already get enough of it from Ian and Jack, I don't need you adding to it."

"Oh." Yassen blinks; and then, cautiously, "would you like to keep trying football?"

Alex's stance relaxes; and he pulls his hands away from his face. "Yes. Please."

They spend the rest of the afternoon playing. Yassen thinks he may be marginally better at it, now, and can block a good half of Alex's attempts to score a goal. If nothing else, it means that the boy got his dose of exercise for the day.

When they get back inside, Jack gives them both a disapproving look. "You both need showers," she says, bluntly; and when Yassen tries to protest, adds, "just borrow some of Ian's clothes. I doubt he'll mind."

Yassen shuts his mouth; glad that he's trained himself well enough to not show his mortification outwardly. Alex still cackles slightly over it.

He does wind up having to borrow a shirt from Ian's closet; a button up rather than the turtlenecks he prefers; but it's comfortable and faintly smells like the other's cologne, which Yassen, strangely, finds himself appreciating.

When Ian gets home, it's late, and Yassen's already helped Jack with dinner, and helped Alex with his maths homework, so he really has no other reason to be staying around than to wait for the spy to arrive, a fact which he only begrudgingly admits to himself.

Ian sets his keys in the bowl on the bookshelf by the front door, takes one look at Yassen, standing awkwardly in the hallway, sets his briefcase down, and makes quick work of the space between them until he's standing less than an arm's length away. "Is that my shirt?" he asks, breathy, eyes roving the assassin's form.

Yassen clears his throat; mortification returning. "Alex and I had a very eventful afternoon," he says. "I learnt how to play football. Well," he amends, "somewhat. Jack made us take showers—said we were too filthy to be allowed to run around the house."

Ian hums. He reaches out, fixing the collar of the shirt. "You look good in it," he says, his eyes dark; and Yassen suddenly remembers that this man could kill him seven different ways without even having to think too much of it. Somehow, that only makes the moment more heated; the point of contact burning through the fabric of the shirt.

Ian steps back. "I should let you go," he says. "It's getting late, you probably should get to sleep."

"All right," Yassen agrees, not mentioning the fact that he needs only four hours a night anyway, and steps back.

When he gets back to the hotel, there's two texts from Ian.

_Take care of yourself._

_And keep the shirt._

* * *

Two months later, Alex's on the school football team. They have their first game the day before Yassen is set to leave for Nevada. He plays hard and well—offence, and he's fast and smaller than the other students and nearly perfect for evading the opposing team members.

Yassen sits in the stands with Ian, Jack, and Alex's friend, Tom—a curly-haired, laid back teen who habitually wears a beige beanie. Tom spends the entire match on the edge of his seat, shouting encouragement for Alex.

It's a nightmare, but it's worth it to see the fierce pride in Ian's gaze, and the exuberance on Alex's face, when his team wins three to two.

"Good job," Yassen murmurs, and then awkwardly wraps his arms around the teen when Alex suddenly drags him in for a hug. The contact is sudden and unexpected, and Yassen tenses instinctually, but forces himself to relax increment by increment.

"Thanks," Alex grins, pulling back, and goes to Tom.

"Sick game, man," Tom says, his eyes dancing; and holds out his fist for Alex. Alex laughs, bumping his own against the other's; the two of them seemingly unaware of anyone around them.

"Will you be coming over for dinner?" Ian asks, from over his shoulder, and Yassen turns, shaking his head.

"I have to get going, I am afraid," he says. "Tell Alex I am sorry. It is for work."

Ian's lips tighten; but he doesn't say anything besides, "Okay."

Yassen goes back to the hotel to begin packing as soon as he can get away. He folds his clothes with a methodical, practiced hand. He pauses when he comes to Ian's shirt; half tempted to throw it away, but the more sentimental part of him urges him to take it.

In the end, he folds it into a precise rectangle and tucks it into the duffle bag with the others.

The assignment is to assassinate a possible mole. SCORPIA found out about the man recently, and would normally have simply vanished him, but he's a decently high-level American bureaucrat—a governor, according to the file. He's got security.

Honestly, Yassen finds it slightly insulting that he's being hired over only a governor; but it's his assignment, and the paycheck is sizeable, so he doesn't protest it.

As he sits in an uncomfortable chair in a café watching the man—David Schmidt—order what has to be the most complicated drink in the history of drinks, though, he does begin to regret it.

David, finally, picks up his cup and makes for the table two over from Yassen and opens up his laptop. His two bodyguards less than discreetly take the two tables on either side of him. Yassen bites back a yawn.

He's suddenly glad that they're sitting outside, because it at least gives him a chance to immerse himself in the sounds around him.

His gaze catches on a couple and their large, golden poodle. One of the women is holding a bag of what Yassen suspects are dog treats, and she says, loud enough that he can catch, "Come on, Buddy, play dead! Come on, you're a good boy!" and pats her thigh three times.

Instantly, the dog goes limp; flopping to the ground, not so much as wagging its tail. Yassen is reluctantly impressed. The other woman laughs, and plucks the bag from the first's hand, reaching in to pull out a treat and offer it to the dog, who suddenly comes to life and scarfs it down, and then the first woman tugs on the leash and they're off, taking Yassen's only source of amusement with them.

Yassen's gaze drifts back to Schmidt, who's still typing away on his laptop, and he sighs. It's going to be a long assignment.

Three days later, he's perched atop a building, three hundred metres across from the floor where Schmidt is going to be meeting an MI6 agent to give them information. Normally, Yassen would wait longer before carrying out the hit, but he'd only just found out about the meeting at the very last moment, and so he's fast-tracked the assignment.

Through the scope, he watches the empty office; the desk and chair untouched. He mentally consults the time—Schmidt, and the person he's meeting, are on the verge of running late.

Suddenly, the door swings open; admitting a harried looking Schmidt, and another man; a tall brunet wearing comfortable, if still formal, clothing.

It only takes a single heartbeat for Yassen to recognise him, even from the distance.

Ian.

His plan was to terminate both the MI6 agent and Schmidt; but now, he finds his finger hovering over the trigger, reluctant. He has to do his job, of course, and he'd warned Ian that something like this might happen, and yet—

He takes the shot.

It whizzes through the air, hitting to the left of Ian. A warning. Ian instantly whips around, gaze scanning the horizon; catches sight of Yassen. Schmidt has scrambled beneath the desk, cowering in fear. Yassen begins to readjust for a second shot; this time, aiming for lethality.

In one fluid movement, before Yassen can get a lock on either of them, Ian aims, and pulls the trigger.

Pain lances through Yassen's torso; and he falls back, away from his riffle, which clatters to the cement roof. He lays still for a moment, wheezing up at the sky, as he assesses his wound. It's driven through bone; his shoulder already on fire; and he briefly thinks that it's fitting payback for the similar wound he gave Ian not too long ago.

By the placement, though, it, too, was designed to be a warning. Something about that makes his stomach churn oddly.

He drags himself off the ground; pulls the riffle apart, tucking it into the duffle bag he brought with him; ignoring the pain in his shoulder as best he can, despite the movement aggravating it. Then he picks the duffle bag up with his good arm and makes his way off the roof.

Back at his hotel room, he drags himself into the bathroom; digging out a first aid kit. There's nothing to dig the bullet out with, so he improvises with the end of a pen. It hurts like all hell and will probably do nothing for his recovery, but he dumps iodine in the wound and hopes that helps some.

The door to the room opens; setting Yassen on edge; and he instantly scouts the bathroom for weapons, finding nothing; squares his stance in preparation.

The bathroom door opens to reveal Ian.

"You look like hell," he says, bluntly; and Yassen bites back that it's a hell of his own making. He telegraphs his approach, a box in hand. "I have a better first aid kit than you do."

"That is hardly an achievement," Yassen bites out. "Mine is sorely lacking."

Ian hums. "I'm going to stitch that up for you," he says, nodding to the wound; non-negotiable. "And then we're going to pretend that we never ran into each other."

"If this is your guilt, I do not want it," Yassen warns; on edge, warily watching as Ian reaches out to swab the wound to clean away the blood and iodine.

"It's not," Ian says. "Well, no, it is a bit, but mostly, it's just—" he struggles for a moment, casting a look at the bloodied bullet on the counter, and winces. "I just. It's." He trails off. _Classic British repression_ , Yassen thinks, exasperated. _They never do say what they think._

In the end, he settles for threading the suture needle, and beginning sewing up the wound; one hand steadying the shoulder, warm against his skin—Yassen had pulled off his shirt the instant he got into the bathroom. Yassen doesn't complain; just watches him do it. Finally, he says, "I saw a couple training a dog to play dead."

It's an obvious attempt to alleviate the tension; something he'd normally be above, but with Ian, for some reason, he's not. Ian raises a brow. "Oh?"

Yassen nods; hissing when the action shifts his shoulder. "A standard poodle. The woman patted her thigh three times and it rolled over."

Ian hums. "You know, Alex's been begging for a pet for ages. Maybe we should get him a dog."

_We._

Yassen's mouth feels dry; and he swallows thickly. "Perhaps," he says.

When the wound's all stitched up, Ian pulls back; snips the thread and drops the remainder into the garbage can. "I should go," he says. Presses a gauze pad onto the wound and tapes it down; his motions careful, almost gentle.

Yassen nods. "All right." Watches Ian pull away.

Hesitant, Ian asks, "I'll see you back at home?"

Yassen licks his lips; and then, finally: "Yes."

Ian disappears out of the bathroom; the hotel room door swinging closed behind him, leaving Yassen alone in the bloodied bathroom. At least, he reflects, he doesn't have an open wound anymore.

* * *

When Martin Wilby's number appears on his phone screen, Yassen knows that something's gone wrong. He just doesn't expect the man to mention Point Blanc. That'll have to be remedied, of course—he can't risk the agency knowing of the place.

So, quickly, he makes a plan in his mind as he instructs Wilby to meet him at an abandoned parking garage near the water.

The man turns up with Ian in tow; both of them carrying guns. "Something doesn't feel right, Martin," Ian says, his voice carrying through the large, empty space, bouncing off the walls. He hasn't spotted Yassen yet.

"I agree," Wilby says.

Yassen steps out of the shadows. "Ian." The gun instantly turns to him.

"Yassen," he greets; tense; on edge.

"Small world, no?" Yassen keeps his stance relaxed.

"How was New York?" Ian bites out.

He barely keeps himself from grimacing. Of course Ian would figure it out. "I didn't see much of it," he says. "Mainly, the inside of an elevator shaft."

Ian frowns. "And Serenkov?" He still hasn't lowered his gun.

Yassen frowns; slightly insulted at the insinuation. Serenkov was a sloppy job. "Wasn't me," he says. "Someone else." He's past trying to lie to Ian.

When Ian speaks, it's quiet. "Where do we go from here, Yas?"

The nickname feels like a punch to the gut; emotionally, at least; winds him, for a second. "Well, I am afraid you will not be going anywhere," he manages; watches the understanding trickle into Ian's expression as he feels the cold gunmetal against the back of his head.

"Drop the gun," Wilby commands.

"Martin." Ian's expression is subdued. "You have no idea who you're working for."

"I know what I'm being paid."

"You really think you're going to be around long enough to enjoy it, do you?" Stalling; and not indiscreetly.

This time, it's Yassen who speaks. "Drop the gun."

Ian's lips twitch; the faintest hint of a smile.

"I'm sorry, Ian. I really am."

"So am I."

This was inevitable, and they both knew it. The gun clatters to the ground.

Yassen raises his own; taps his thigh three times in quick succession. Hopes Ian understands. Shoots, twice. Ian falls to the ground limply. Wilby looks away; expression white as a sheet. Yassen steps forward. Shoots again, slightly to the side of Ian's head.

"If you don't mind," he says, to Wilby. The other man grimaces slightly; turns to expose his shoulder. Yassen shoots again; watching, uninterested, as he flinches; hisses in pain. "So, um, keep pressure on the wound, and breathe easy. And go call it in. I will take care of the body."


	2. Chapter 2

Alex doesn't believe it. This can't be happening. Ian can't be dead—especially not from a bloody _car crash_. The man drives like he's eighty—Alex doesn't think he's ever seen him go over the speed limit. It's something that he and Yassen have both teased him for—Yassen less overtly, but still there.

God. _Yassen._ He's in Moscow for work—what is Alex going to say to him when he gets back? _Hi, Yassen, welcome back, by the way, your boyfriend died while you were gone. Car crash. They won't let us see the body._

That's what fucks him up the most—that they won't let him see the body. Alex would believe it, he _would,_ he's not paranoid, but something about the way that all the pieces seem to be slightly misaligned and out of place means that he's suspicious.

It's not that he doesn't think Ian's dead—he'd accepted that in the first ten minutes. It's that he doesn't think it's a car crash.

Tom comes over the day after. It's Saturday, so they have the day off. Alex is incredibly glad for it, because, as grudging as he is to admit it, he genuinely feels terrible. His mind is foggy and everything seems grey without Ian. Jack's been leaving him alone, probably in the hopes that giving him space will help him sort himself out.

"Hey," Tom says. Quiet. Awkward. He steps into the room in the corner of Alex's eye. "You doing okay? —christ, no, you're not, sorry." He sighs. "I'm bad at—this. So just, just tell me what you want—we can do a movie marathon, or I can leave you alone, or whatever—"

" _Rider,_ " Alex repeats into the phone. "Romeo indigo delta echo romeo! Well, then, can you check again?"

Tom's hand on his shoulder is heavy. "Mate," he murmurs, "calm down." It's only then that Alex realises that he's shaking, teary wending their way down over his cheeks. He rises; meaning to shake of Tom's hand; but instead, he falls, still shaking, into the other's warm, comforting embrace. Tom clumsily pats his back. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, "it's okay."

It's not. It's fucking _not,_ and Alex wants to scream; but for now he's content to stay in Tom's arms, feeling small but safe.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates with a message; and suddenly, he remembers Tom's own phone, left in Ian's car's glovebox. "Tom," he says, pulling away, roughly drying his face with the sleeve of his shirt, "do you have find my phone turned on?"

Tom frowns at him. "Yeah, but the battery's probably dead by now—"

Alex fumbles with his own phone; shakes his head. "Doesn't matter," he says, "it'll record the last location." He passes the phone to the other boy. "Password."

"Alright, alright." Tom types in the password, handing the phone back. After a few moments, the screen resolves from the spinning circle to a map. "Where's that?" he asks, frowning at the dot on the map.

"I don't know," Alex says. "Somewhere near the water?"

Tom's frown deepens. "What would your uncle be doing there?"

"I don't know," Alex says, grimly, tapping the dot, waiting for the _directions_ option to pop up before he taps it. The map zooms out, giving the first set of directions. "Let's go find out."

* * *

Point Blanc is cold. That's a given, since it's nestled in the Alps, but Alex still feels shocked at how stingingly, bitterly cold the air is when he steps out of the helicopter, wearing nothing more than a shirt and a thin coat. Stellenbosch's thick coat and gloves, out of place in England, suddenly make sense.

Alex spends the firs few days acclimating to the environment. He finds himself perpetually cold in his uniform, despite the indoor heating, and it makes him cranky. Some of it must leak over into his motions, because on day, when he's moodily stabbing at his toast with a marmalade-covered knife, trying not to shiver, James says, "Dude, you've been out of sorts all day. What's got your pants in a twist?"

"Nothing," Alex mutters, and gives in to the urge to shiver. He's cold, and the iPod Smithers gave him doesn't get any reception or even, as it turns out, play music, his uncle is dead, and Tom and Jack are back in London, while Yassen is god knows where. "Just cold."

"Uh huh," James says, sounding supremely unconvinced. "Well, next thing you know, the cold's going to start making you turn purple, too."

"Fuck off," Alex grumbles, and bites down into the toast, barely tasting the bitter, watery marmalade. Still, he grimaces. He's not sure if it's on purpose, but the academy seems bound and determined to serve their students food that's inedible in one way or another.

He's still suppressing shivers when they break into Grief's office. The place is huge, and creepy, and austere, and he has no idea how Kyra can sit in that chair and type away at the computer without feeling shudders travel down her spine. And, to make matters worse, it's a good few degrees colder than the rest of the building.

"Alright," Kyra announces, "I have root access. The codes are on text files—" she looks disgusted by the fact—"so I can just write our new ones on top."

"Great," Alex says, nodding. "Make it something easy—zero zero zero zero." It's the oldest trick in the book, but it's an easy to remember pattern.

Kyra types rapidly for a few moments. "There," she announces, rising.

"Wait." The word rips itself from Alex, and before he knows it, he's saying, "Can you do something for me? Look up Ian Rider. R-I-D-E-R."

Kyra frowns at him; obviously confused; but does as asked. "No results," she says. "Now let's go before we get caught."

They flee from Grief's office to the sound of instrumental music blaring across the compound, slipping into the dining hall to find James in Stellenbosch's grip. Alex winces sympathetically, glad when she releases him, though she looks absolutely enraged.

That night, he lays in bed awake; frustrated at the lack of information he's gathered despite the five days he's already stayed. He's still no closer to knowing what happened to Parker Roscoe, or who killed Ian.

When he wakes, it's snowing; the window half obscured by a tall snow drift already; and Alex sighs. If they're going to escape, they'll have to get through this mess.

He goes about the day normally, or as normally as one can when one's pretending to be the son of a billionaire to infiltrate a shady school. He attends his lessons; listens to Stellenbosch talk about Newton's third law.

"Every action," she says; words bitten and sharp, much like herself, "has an equal, opposite reaction. The forces exerted on the desk by my hand—" she places her hand on the desk—"are equal to the forces exerted on my hand by the desk."

Alex frowns. He knows the theory, of course; but it's never really made sense to him. How can the table be pushing back on the hand?

He doesn't raise his hand, though. With Stellenbosch, it's better to pretend that you know exactly what she's talking about, than give her an excuse to make an example of you in front of everyone else. Especially when three out of the six students are... _changed._

Alex suppresses the shiver at the memory of biology earlier in the day. The way that Arrash, Laura, and Sasha had stared in almost open glee at the vivisection of the frog had been horrible and creepy as hell. He hadn't expected a vivisection in the first place, but he sure as _hell_ hadn't expected the others to look excited by it.

 _Something is deeply wrong with what the academy does to its students_ , Alex thinks, grimly _. And I need to figure out what that is before it happens to me._

His thoughts stay with him throughout dinner; and he finds himself picking at the pasta that's been prepared by Laura and James. It tastes fine, for once, but he can barely choke down a noodle a minute, so he winds up being the last one to get up and leave the dining room.

He wanders out into the hall, cold, but still largely relaxed, and turns—

And sees _Yassen._

His muscles instantly lock up; his eyes going wide. Yassen's own eyes narrow. "Alex...Friend?" he says, testing the name in his mouth. There's no way he _doesn't_ recognise Alex, even with the haircut, the surly expression, and the academy uniform. He simply know Alex too well.

 _Oh fuck,_ Alex thinks, hysterically, _he's going to tell Grief._ His cover's going to be blown, and then, Alex dreads to think what'll become of him—and Alex-puppet, like Laura, Sasha, and Arrash are, cruel and cold and inhuman, and absolutely _wrong._

Shaking, he prepares to tackle Yassen and—and— _what_ , exactly? He may only be slightly shorter than Yassen, but he knows, suddenly, that Yassen could take him easily.

In the end, Yassen saves him the trouble. Merely, he smiles—the expression jagged and grim and wholly unlike the smiles of his that Alex is used to—and raises a finger to his lips in the universal hushing motion. "Another time, maybe," he says, calmly. Then, he turns, disappearing out the door, leaving Alex shaking and buzzing with adrenaline-induced warmth.

* * *

Later, sitting on the bench with Jones, his questions are somewhat answered. When Alex tells her about seeing a man with a distinctive scar on his face, Jones pales, pulling out her tablet, and types for a few moments before passing it to Alex. "Yassen Gregorovich," she says, grimly. "One of the deadliest assassins in the world. We had thought he was dead, but..." she trails off; leaving Alex reeling.

His uncle was a spy. His uncle's boyfriend was an assassin. A hysterical laugh bubbles in him. Next, he's going to find out that Jack's secretly English royalty or something absurd. And the implications of it all—Yassen must have gotten close to Ian in order to kill him. Alex finds himself feeling bitterly lost and betrayed by everyone he thought he knew.

Jones gives him a measured look. "Are you alright?" she asks. Alex shakes his head. She sighs, digging a hand into her pocket, and pulls out a small, plastic-wrapped, hard candy. "Peppermint," she says. "I find they help calm me down."

Alex takes it wordlessly; pops it into his mouth, sucking tersely on the spicy candy. It does, to his surprise, relieve some of his stress, and when he's done with it, he grudgingly takes the second one Jones offers.

After that, she rises, tucking her tablet into her back. "Well, I'd better be off," she says. "Work demands it, I'm afraid."

Alex nods. "Goodbye, Ms. Jones."

"Goodbye, Alex."

Alex hopes that it's the last time he ever has to see her. Somehow, though, he doubts it will be. The thought makes him grimace.

He takes the long route home. The cars whiz by him, the sidewalk beneath his feet drab and cold. There's fog in the air, and his cheeks feel wet, like he's been crying. It's annoying and it makes him want to curl up and hide beneath ten blankets and never come out.

The next few days pass in a blur. He gets up in the morning, does his stretches like he's supposed to. Eats his breakfast. Bikes to school. Keeps up with his schoolwork like he's supposed to. Everything feels just as hollow as it did right after he got the news that Ian had died. Somehow, he had thought that things would change, but they hardly have, and that, somehow, makes things even worse.

The only thing that brightens up his days is Tom. "Come on, mate, just ask her," he needles, at lunch, snacking away on a bag of crisps. "You guys are like, a once in a lifetime, sun and moon allignment things, you know."

"I dunno," Alex mutters, not looking up from his sandwich. "I'm not really interested in the dance, honestly."

Tom lets out a deep sigh. "Fine," he says, "then I guess we'll just stay at home and watch _Yojimbo._ "

Alex winces. In truth, it's not so much that he doesn't want to go to the dance as that he doesn't want to go to it with _Ayisha._ She's perfectly nice, and Alex thinks, in another timeline, he might have been interested in her; but in this one, he's stuck hopelessly orbiting his frizzy-haired, nerdy, awkward, perfect best friend.

He sighs. "Okay," he says. "We can watch _Yojimbo._ "

Tom cheers, and throws an arm around his shoulders; warmth encircling Alex immediately, and his ears feel like they've caught on fire. Tom, thankfully, doesn't notice. "Great," he says, "we can finally talk about the costumes..."

In the end, Tom gets asked to the dance by Steph. Predictably, he says yes. Alex feels like an idiot, only just managing to muster up a half-decent smile when Tom begins crowing to him in victory about it.

That night, he makes his way home from school, heart heavy. He's checking his phone in the vain hope that Tom's texted him something to the effect of _i'm so fucking bored can we meet up and watch ghost dog_ when his phone rings with an unknown number.

The night goes downhill from there. It turns out that one of the clones Grief made was modelled after him—Alex nearly hits himself at the fact that he overlooked the possibility, but forgives himself when he remembers that MI6 also overlooked it—and he's going to kill Tom if Alex doesn't show up back at Brookland's in four minutes.

Alex runs like his life depends on it.

He barely makes it there in the nick of time; gets into a fight with the clone— _Julius_ , he sneers, _my name is Julius,_ when Alex tells him he's just an experiment—and crashes the dance. He only feels slightly bad for that, before they're crashing out of the auditorium and down the hallways and out into the parking lot.

MI6 sees fit to pull up then and point a gun at each of them. "Don't move!" Crawley shouts, his gun trained on Julius.

"Ms. Jones, it's me!" Alex tries, desperately.

Julius shakes his head, teeth bared and bloodied, lip bleeding. "He tortured me to get your name!" he insists. Jones and Crawley look at each other, uncertain.

In the end, Tom decides it for them; limping, arm clutched to his chest, and hefts the pole like a bat, whacking Julius over the head with a resounding _crack_ that Alex is sure will leave a nasty headache. He can't bring himself to care, though.

Just as the other agents are about to hustle Julius off into one of the two undoubtedly armoured cars, though, he breaks free; yanking a gun from one of the agents and pointing it at Alex; mouth pulled into an ugly snarl. Alex's eyes widen, watching, frozen, as his finger tightens on the trigger—

There's a whisper on the air, and suddenly, Julius collapses to the ground, blood spattering across the pavement. Alex can't see the wound, but instinctively, he knows that it's to the heart. Somehow, he knows, that whoever it is was in no mood for mercy tonight.

* * *

They get back from the hospital after three hours. Because Tom's parents weren't able to be reached by phone, Ms. Jones had to handle the paperwork. In the end, though, it all works out fine, and she drops off Alex and Tom in front of Alex's house.

As she drives away, Alex finds himself suddenly embracing Tom. "Don't you ever do that to me again," he whispers. "I couldn't—you're not allowed to get hurt like that again, okay?"

Tom laughs weakly. "Alright, mate," he says, nodding. "Whatever makes you happy."

"I mean it," Alex says, sternly, and then, without much fanfare or forewarning, for Tom or himself, he kisses him.

Instantly, he pulls back, eyes wide. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You're such an idiot," Tom grumbles, and grabs him with his good hand, planting one on him. Alex's ears and cheeks feel aflame.

They both stare at each other for a moment, in silence, and then Alex says, "So, we should probably—"

"Go inside?" Tom nods. "Yeah, lets."

They don't mention any more on the topic; but they do hold hands as they walk down the block to number forty-two. When they step inside, the house is quiet, almost alarmingly so. Alex lets go of Tom's hand, and calls, "Hello? Jack?"

"In the living room," comes Jack's voice, and Tom and Alex exchange a look before making their way into the living room.

There, sitting on the sofa across from Jack, is Yassen, dressed unassumingly in a pair of sweatpants and a sweater. Alex instantly tenses. "You!" he hisses. "The hell are you doing here? You _killed Ian!_ "

"Actually, he didn't."

Alex whips around; gaping at the pale figure of Ian Rider. "You're _dead,_ " is the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth. And then, turning back to Yassen, "And you're a fucking _assassin!_ Did you know that, Ian? Huh?"

Ian offers a tired smile. "I do," he says, and then, "before you protest, I always have."

Alex stares at him. "You... _what,_ " he says. "You knew he was an assassin, and you let him into the _house?_ "

Ian shrugs. "He gave his word that you wouldn't be harmed," he says, like that's supposed to mean anything.

"You're dead," Alex finds himself saying again.

His uncle sighs. "Have a seat, Alex. You too, Tom."

They sit. Alex takes the armchair, while Tom takes the seat next to Jack on the couch. What follows is a long explanation—of Ian's work, and of Yassen's, and how Yassen had faked Ian's death, taking care of his gunshot wounds, going so far as to do an impromptu direct blood transfusion—"I am type O-," Yassen explains—but kept him from coming back to Alex until Point Blac had blown over. Finally, when it comes to a conclusion, Yassen says, "We're retiring. The both of us."

"What," Alex says, flatly.

Ian nods. "To Germany," he says. "Yassen's secured us new identities, ones that'll hold up to scrutiny." He hesitates. "I want you to come with us. I don't trust MI6 to not try and send you on a mission again." How he knows about that, Alex doesn't ask.

He turns to look helplessly at Tom. "You should go," the other says, quietly. "It'd be safer for you."

"But what about us?" Alex finds himself asking, somewhat childishly. "That's so far..."

"We can call every day," Tom promises. "And it's only two more years until we're eighteen, and then you can come see me, or I can come see you."

Alex hesitates. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Yeah, alright. When do we leave?"

"As soon as possible," Yassen replies. "You should probably get packing now."

"And...what about Jack?"

Jack's expression is gentle. "Sweetie, this was always meant to be temporary," she says. "Now that I have my degree, I'm going back to the US. But...you have my number."

"Yeah," Alex mumbles, "I guess I do." He feels overwhelmed. "Excuse me," he says, rising, and makes his way to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

A few moments later, there's a knock. "Can I come in?"

Tom. Alex swallows thickly. "Yeah," he calls. "Yeah, go ahead."

Tom enters; sits on the bed next to him, and drags him into a long hug; lets Alex bury himself in the other. "We'll figure it out," he murmurs. "I promise."

For some reason, Alex believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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